


Dim Slumming

by greyskygirl



Series: The Hand That Feeds You [1]
Category: Actor RPF, Captain America (Movies) RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Kink, Chubby Subby Seb, Food Kink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 09:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7429825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl/pseuds/greyskygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The press tour's been going on for a while. Nobody can blame Sebastian for trying to have a little fun. (This shameless RPF brought to you by Sebastian Stan's love affair with food.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dim Slumming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superstringtheory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/superstringtheory/gifts).



> This, my first foray into RPF, was inspired by [this photoset](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com/post/147103980698/d-lightfulexcess-i-dig-the-blue-shirt-butwhat), which made me want to explore just WHY poor Sebastian looks so miserable. 
> 
> And more than 9,000 words later, here we are. (You can't have the friends I have and not end up writing RPF. It's just not possible.) I am delighted to be able to use the chubby!subby!Seb tag here, because it's pretty much the best three words I've ever combined. 
> 
> This one goes out to the lovely [viedangerouse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/viedangerouse), who very sweetly let me scream at her about this the entire time I was writing it.

It’s Mackie’s fault. And really, that’s been kind of the unofficial theme of the Civil War press tour -- all the Anthony-Mackie-led shenanigans during interviews are well known, on their way to Internet me-me fame and glory mere hours after being posted. But the fans don’t know the half of it. They’re all tired after half an interminable day of interviews in Singapore, so the break for lunch is a welcome one. A herd of brightly smiling PAs shepherds them to a waiting van, just Mackie and Chris and Sebastian, and Mackie rubs his hands together, grinning hugely.

“It’s about to go down.”

Chris laughs, shaking his head. “Man, it’s lunch. We’re gettin’ out of the building for an hour. It’s not a party; there are no strippers.”

“It’s DIM SUM,” Mackie says meaningfully, leaning forward from his place in the backseat to point at Chris with a knowing grin. “I take my dumplings seriously. Don’t you?”

That fucking nickname, Sebastian thought ruefully, watching curiously as Chris’s cheeks seem to color slightly. He’s not bothered by it. Like he’d said, it was only natural given the bulking he’d done for Civil War, enough to shoot him easily past what had seemed like a lofty weight goal -- and he was enormously amused by the reaction Chris’d had to it in their interview, bursting out into that infectious laugh while he’d been in the middle of answering the interviewer’s next question.

Sebastian’s hand drifts to his stomach without thought, lightly palming his belly. He’s mostly back down to his normal weight: his trainer’s seen to that with frightening motivation, threatening to post videos every time he comes in to work out. 

“Is this what you want your fans to see, Seb? Is it?”

It’s not his flavor of motivation, for one -- he has a goal, he’s doing what it takes to get there, and if those last 15 pounds are stubbornly sticking around, well, probably worse things have happened in the world from time to time. And the heavier Civil War version of Bucky Barnes had seemed to screen just fine with audiences. It fit, he’d thought. It felt right for the character.

And maybe sometimes it feels right for him, too.

The van’s stopping, so he pushes that thought aside and follows Chris onto the street. Mackie’s right behind, clapping Sebastian on the shoulder. 

“Looks like they named this place after you, Seabass!” 

Sebastian glances up at the garish red signage, proudly welcoming them to Mouth Restaurant in shiny gold lettering. Chris’s laugh booms out beside him, and Sebastian can’t fight the smile that forms. It’s an involuntary response. No one can resist Chris Evans laughing.

He’d stopped trying a long time ago.

Mackie’s at the door, glancing back impatiently. “Come on, come ON.” He points at Sebastian. “You. Me. Dim sum challenge.”

Beside him, Chris is protesting, even as Sebastian raises an eyebrow and nods in acknowledgment. They weren’t getting through this press tour without some stupid fun -- and there was no way Mackie can put away more dim sum than the goddamn Chubby Dumpling himself. They hadn’t seen his room service order last night. 

“Such a bad idea,” Chris mutters as they’re led to their seats. 

Sebastian claps him on the shoulder briefly. “You’ll get your ‘I told you so’ moment later.”

The restaurant is cheerfully decorated in red and white, with gold chairs and a black ceiling. The smiling hostess leads them to a private room in the back, past the stares and curious chatter, and Sebastian notes the relief in Chris’s posture when the door closed behind them. No cameras, no whispers -- just a normal meal. A normal meal where Sebastian‘s going to out-eat Mackie for bragging rights. 

They each get tiny cups of hot tea and large glasses of water, and Mackie makes a mocking toast. “To the handsome man who can eat the most tiny food! That’s me. You know that’s me.”

Chris shakes his head. “So what’re the rules for the worst idea on a full day of press ever?”

“You get outta your chair, you’re done,” Mackie says immediately. “None of this making room nonsense. In it to win it.”

Sebastian shrugs his acceptance and hides the triumphant smile that threatens; that makes sense. A thought hits, and he leans forward. “Okay, and no refusing food, unless you’re allergic. We’re just gonna tell them to bring us whatever, and if they put it in front of you, you’re eating it.”

“A bite,” Chris adds. “Ma’s rule: you’ve got to try it, but if it’s disgusting, you do not have to finish it.”

Mackie forms a fist, and Chris rolls his eyes as Sebastian reaches across him to bump it with his own.

For all Chris’s seeming disapproval, he takes charge when the waiter enters. “Hey, hi!” he says, friendly smile in place. “We kind of want to try everything. Can we do that? I mean, whatever you think here -- you pick, and just bring it out. These two--” he waves a hand at Mackie, darts a look at Sebastian, eyes brightening a bit-- “are just really excited to taste the whole menu.”

Chris sweeps up the menus that no one else at the table has bothered to look at and hands them over. “And I’m gonna have the steamed pork buns, the prawn dumplings …” he trails off for a moment, but rushes to continue when it looks like Mackie’s going to throw out a comment, “and the … uh … the Phoenix claw?”

The waiter looks a little overwhelmed, but seems to accept his challenge, nodding and scurrying toward the kitchen.

“Man, did you just order a claw?” Mackie asks incredulously. “You’re not even playing. There is no come-from-behind I-win-because-I-ate-a-claw thing happening here.”

“It’s chicken!” Chris protests. “Seb, help me out here. Also, I’m not playing because like I keep pointing out, we’re not exactly done for the day. I’m already known to the world as an ass man, I don’t need to add anything else ridiculous to the headlines. Like ‘Chris Evans rushed to hospital after dim sum orgy’, or something godawful like that.”

Mackie guffaws, and Sebastian can’t help but join him in laughter. He’d listened to the podcast, of course -- both parts, sure, as any supportive friend would -- but Mackie had already texted him a string of emojis proclaiming Chris’s new title: Captain AssMerica. Sebastian’d just shot back: “So what you’re saying is you’ve got a Google alert set for Chris Evans + ass?” and added the thumbs-up emoji.

He hadn’t given further thought to Chris’s preference, hadn’t dared dwell. He’s not dwelling now, either -- he’s focusing on the waiter coming back through the door, hefting an enormous platter that looks like it could carry enough food for ten people.

A plate is set carefully in front of Chris, and those are clearly the claws he ordered. Mackie gets a plate of innocent-looking balls of dough, and Sebastian politely covers his smile when the waiter describes them as egg yolk buns. The smile disappears when the waiter presents him with his own dish.

Sebastian’s traveled. He’s experienced different cultures and their different cuisines, and he is in no way a picky eater. But he’s never experienced anything quite like the aggressively green cup of … liquid something … that’s just been placed in front of him. He stares for a minute, and Chris leans over to do the same.

“The fuck?” Chris whispers in his ear, blue eyes wide with horrified interest. 

Sebastian dares a glance up at the waiter. “Uh, what’s this, please?”

“Soup!” Which, okay, yes, that much was (mostly) obvious. His confusion must be clear, because the waiter adds a description that makes Sebastian wish he hadn’t dared to ask. “Spinach egg white soup. With crab meat. House favorite! You will enjoy.”

Oh, will he. Theoretically, all those things are good, even if he’d sworn off spinach and egg whites for months after he eased up on his Civil War routine of culinary misery. The combination is definitely not visually appealing, with the ominous red blob floating in the middle of a weedy-looking sea of vibrant green. And now that he knows exactly what’s happening in this bowl, he feels even less eager to put it in his mouth.

Chris is pointing now, asking the waiter, “And in the middle?”

“In the middle is the roe!”

Mackie’s smile is so gleeful that Sebastian expects his face to actually split. No one can blame him for hoping, he thinks, picking up the spoon and gingerly poking the surface of the soup. He’s assuming those are egg whites wiggling in response.

Ma’s rule. One bite. He can do this.

He dips the spoon into the soup and lifts, watching the green droplets escaping back in the bowl. Chris and Mackie are both watching intently, but while Mackie looks like he’s got a front-row ticket to the best show anyone’s ever seen, Chris looks serious, maybe concerned.

“Seb,” he says suddenly, stretching out a hand like maybe he’s going to knock the spoon away. “You don’t-- you don’t have to eat that. It looks …” he gulps, grimaces, apparently lost for words descriptive enough for the horror before him. “You don’t have to eat that,” he says again.

“Ma’s rule,” Sebastian murmurs, wondering if Chris knows him so little that he really thinks Sebastian’s going to back down. Now. Without trying. 

He spoons the soup into his mouth and regrets everything. Quitting seems preferable to swallowing. Anything does. The flavor’s not great, it’s not anything approaching good, even; but it’s the texture threatening to do him in. He tastes slime, a connection his brain makes easily given the vivid hue of the soup. The egg whites are slick on his tongue, and he doesn’t want to do this. Like Chris said, he doesn’t have to do this. 

Then Mackie whispers, “Do it for Bucky,” and Sebastian chokes in surprise and swallows the mouthful of soup, and it is a thousand times worse sliding down his throat than it was on his tongue. It tastes wrong in every way, and oh, there was some crab meat in that bite, inexplicably. Awful. It’s awful.

Chris is sliding the bowl away before Sebastian can even fumble for his water glass. He drains it in two long swallows, drinking gratefully as the blank coolness rushes down his throat, trying valiantly to erase what had gone before. He gulps his tea down next, almost hoping it’ll burn his taste buds. 

“Want mine?” Chris asks, fingertips on his own water glass, and Sebastian shakes his head, trying to unfreeze his face from its rictus of misery.

“I’m good,” he lies quietly, forcing a smirk as he looks at Mackie, pointing a long finger at the untouched plate. “That egg yolk bun is begging for your attention. Unless you want to tap out.”

Mackie scoffs, raises a bun to his mouth and takes an enormous bite, showing no expression as egg yolk streams out of the bun and down his chin. 

“That’s actually disgusting,” Chris proclaims, earning a shrug from Mackie, who takes another bite in response, swallowing without effort and finally grabbing a napkin to wipe his face clean. 

“Egg in a bun, man. Ain’t no thing.”

“Nothing good,” Chris retorts. “And you missed a spot.”

Mackie responds -- because he’s Mackie -- by unfolding his napkin to full size and scrubbing it vigorously over his entire face, earning one of those glorious Chris Evans laughs. 

Sebastian’s grateful for the spectacle, still trying to convince his stomach to stay in the game. He’s had dim sum before; the soup -- even thinking about it makes him shudder involuntarily -- is clearly an outlier, a bad draw.

He’s ready for his next hand. Or --

He glances at Chris, who’s just picked up a claw from his plate. Inspired, Sebastian reaches over to grab one for himself. Chris’s sideways glance is amused. “Sure you wanna do that?”

Sebastian’s grin isn’t forced this time, and he taps his claw to Chris’s before raising it in a mock salute to Mackie. “I’m sure.”

They bite at the same time, and this time, the taste is blessedly familiar. The breading’s a little different, but it’s recognizably chicken, and given what preceded it, it is a gift in his mouth. He chews happily and swallows, and the pleasure of good food shared with friends begins to settle over him. He sinks back into the plush gold seat, the tension leaving him and being replaced with a renewed sense of purpose. 

He’s eating to win.

Mackie’s watching him closely, presumably for signs of further weakness, and that spurs him to take another bite, and then another, until the only thing left of his Phoenix claw is the residual fat glistening on his fingertips. He grins at Mackie and shoves his fingers into his mouth, licking the grease off with gusto -- thanks be to whoever got them a private room, this won’t be showing up on the Internet.

Chris is still holding the last bit of his own claw, suspended in mid-air as he stares at Sebastian, who bites his lip without realizing, wondering if he’s making a spectacle of himself. But he knows that expression, knows Chris is carefully controlling his reaction. He can’t dwell, though, because the waiter is back with another platter.

Chris gets his prawn dumplings this time, and Sebastian leans over to inspect them, his shoulder accidentally brushing against Chris’s. These look promising, deep fried and a beautifully crispy golden color, and he inhales lustfully. This is food he wants to eat, and his hand reaches for the nearest dumpling before he remembers.

This is Chris’s plate. 

Sebastian flushes, shoving his hand into his lap and focusing on his own plate. He’s got dumplings, too-- shark fin dumplings, the waiter says as he refills both tea and water. Shark’s not weird; he’s had it, so this is relatively familiar territory. He pops a dumpling into his mouth and winks at Mackie, who is positively delighted about the dumpling-on-dumpling action happening here.

“How many of those did you eat to earn that nickname?” Mackie asks, poking at his own food curiously. The waiter’d used the word “gelatinous” when he was describing the dish and Sebastian had tuned out for his own self-preservation. 

“You know,” Sebastian says lightly, picking up another. “All of ‘em.”

Chris’s hand appears in front of his face then, holding one of the potstickers Sebastian’d been salivating over. When Sebastian darts a glance at him, he grins and shrugs, waggling it like he’s giving his best boy a treat, and Sebastian shifts in his seat, vowing to disembark that particular thought train immediately. “Saw you lookin’. Can’t deny the Chubby Dumpling, can I?”

As Mackie whoops with glee, Sebastian considers leaning forward to snatch the dumpling from Chris’s fingers with his teeth. It’d serve him right, sure, but it’s not really revenge running pell-mell through his thoughts, it’s something else entirely, and he isn’t sure he wants to name it. So for now, he settles for plucking the potsticker out of Chris’s grip and devouring it in one bite.

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Mackie says, his eyes flicking between them with interest. 

Chris’s grin is so big it would be obnoxious on anyone else, and he returns the line easily. “That’s how it is.”

How it is apparently means that not only is Sebastian clearing all his own plates from here on out, but whatever Chris sets in front of him, too. Mackie declines when Chris offers him a rib -- “man, sharing is not always caring, don’t get in my way while I’m winning” -- and focuses on his own servings.

The pan fried beancurd roll is better than it sounds, and Sebastian doesn’t hesitate to dig in, shifting again in his seat in a failed attempt to make room. Five plates of his own, and at least half of the food Chris has been served -- he’s eaten so much more than Mackie, but stopping is admitting defeat. Stopping means that Chris stops pushing food onto his plate and turning that ridiculous smile on him. He’s feeling pretty damn full (and it feels pretty damn good). He’s not stopping.

He eats the rolls and wonders how much grief they’d give him for unbuttoning his black jeans, purposely a little too tight anyway -- that’s the point of skinny jeans -- and that was before the great dim sum throwdown of 2016 had gotten underway. He slides a hand over his belly and stifles a groan, but Chris still notices. 

“You, uh … doin’ okay, Seb?” Those blue eyes are on Sebastian’s hand, which is trying and failing to convince his stomach that all is well, rubbing gently. His hand stills, drops away, and he feels his face heat. Chris’s hand moves slightly, as if he’s going to pick up where Sebastian left off. Like he’s going to rub his belly.

“It’s a fucking lot of food,” he admits, watching the way his belly pooches out over his waistband, his navy polo doing its damnedest and still failing to conceal the struggle. He pushes a stray lock of hair back -- and since when is he sweating? -- and takes a sip of water, instantly regretting filling what precious little space might remain in his stomach with something that is not going to help him win this challenge.

He gives Chris a mock glare, gesturing at the stack of empty plates between them. “And half of it’s yours.”

Chris’s face falls a little at that, and weirdly, he looks almost guilty as he trips into an earnest explanation, shoveling words out of his mouth as quickly as Sebastian’d shoveled dumplings into his. “I know, Seb, I shouldn’t’ve-- you just, after the soup, you know? It was bad, I mean, it looked bad. I wanted--” 

The rest of that sentence is mumbled so lowly Sebastian has no hope of catching it, no way of knowing what it was that Chris wanted. Wants?

Mackie claps his hands together, and they both look up at him, startled out of their strange little moment. He jerks his chin, indicating behind them, smile gleaming wide and white.

Sebastian turns, and there’s more food. This looks vaguely like dessert, but instead of three plates, there are ten. His stomach gurgles loudly in protest, and he catches Chris biting his lip.

“Seb.” Chris’s voice is low, intent. “You’ve gotta be full. If you want to stop …”

Asked and answered. He eats a banana prawn roll. Then a second, and a third. He’s on his way well past the point of simple fullness, but then there’s Chris and his concerned eyes -- always on him, never on Mackie, and what he could read into that is a book that would keep him up at night -- and this is the most comfortable discomfort he knows.

Across the table, Mackie is poking gingerly at his plate. He’d lit up when the waiter said it was carrot cake, but all the enthusiasm had disappeared when the description continued: “Sauteed with bean sprout and spring onion.”

“Naw, man, why? You can’t do that to carrot cake. It’s not right.”

Sebastian leans forward, immediately thinking better of the motion when his aching belly bumps against the edge of the table. He ignores his own discomfort -- he has both a purpose and a plan -- and lets his lips fall into a smirk.

“Come on, Mack Attack. Not going to let your favorite dessert take you out of the game, are you? I mean, no shame.” The laugh he forces out hurts a little, and he wonders exactly how close he’s come to his Civil War prep goal of 5,000 calories in this one sitting.

He may have overshot that, even, but if winning isn’t the point, excess is. Honestly, he’s mostly enjoying the excess -- and Chris’s reaction to it. First the interest, then the assistance and now the worried expressions, syncing up with every muffled groan or twitch Sebastian makes. 

Mackie spoons a bite of so-called cake into his mouth and grimaces. “Invoking the one-bite rule,” he manages to grit out. “That is not carrot cake.”

Chris glances at the remaining plates and shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m done here.” 

Sebastian looks at Mackie, taking a deep breath and willing himself to stay in this chair. He wants to stretch -- actually, he wants to curl up on the carpet and not move for a few hours. He should not want to eat that. But he does. And he’s going to.

The discomfort is a real thing; every breath is more of an effort than usual, and there’s not enough space when he inhales. Exhaling is worse, with his stomach straining over his jeans, which are working overtime to contain his indulgence at this point.

He really wants to go back to his hotel room and the king-size bed with its so-soft sheets, shed these goddamn jeans and let his belly have as much space as it needs. And that’s when it hits him: he can’t. Chris’s earlier point makes so much sense now: they’ve got more interviews to do. He’s going to have to get up from this table, go back and stuff himself into a chair that wasn’t comfortable before he’d decided gluttony was a fun midday pastime and pretend he’s not miserable.

Sebastian thinks darkly that he’s maybe not that good of an actor.

“Okay,” Chris says decisively, his face suddenly serious. “We’ve gotta wrap this up. The van’s coming back in like 10 minutes. It’s fuckin’ sudden death.” He shoves two plates in front of Mackie and slides two more in front of Sebastian.

“First with both plates clean wins it.”

His groan is audible, and he doesn’t care that Mackie hears and rubs his hands together, sensing weakness he can exploit. His stomach lurches in anticipation, and his fist clenches against his thigh. 

Chris nudges his shoulder. “Not gonna let him win, are you, Chubby Dumpling?” His eyes are bright with purpose as he leans in. “You’re gonna do this.”

He straightens in his chair so quickly it’s almost Pavlovian, filled equally with dread, purpose and dim sum. Don’t just eat it, eat it faster. Chris said. Do it. Chris said.

Mackie’s talking to the waiter, asking him to identify what’s in front of him. Sebastian is decidedly not going to do the same. It can’t be worse than the soup, for one, and also? He’s going to eat it anyway. 

He does glance up at the word “birdnest,” eyeing the plate closest to Mackie, mouth pursing a little. Maybe there was a bit of strategy to Chris’s seemingly random dim sum division. And then he hears another word that makes his stomach jump again.

“Say what?” Mackie says, striving for calm and failing. “I heard you wrong. I know I heard you wrong.”

“Double boiled golden fungus,” the waiter repeats patiently. “In rock sugar. House favorite!”

Mackie swallows, rolling his shoulders like consuming fungus is something he can work himself up to. Their eyes meet.

“Best idea you’ve ever had, right?” Sebastian says mockingly. “Have fun with your fungus.”

The waiter is almost out the door, and Mackie calls him back, aiming a wicked grin at Sebastian.

“Hold up! Hey, man, sorry, I forgot to ask. What’s my friend having?”

Fuck.

“Doesn’t matter, right?” Chris whispers in his ear, breath warm and oddly reassuring, before the waiter starts his recitation. “You’re still doin’ it.”

What he’s doing, apparently, is the following: making this afternoon’s press qualify for the ninth circle of hell, doing whatever Chris Evans says and oh, don’t forget eating something called herbal jelly and then …

“What,” he says flatly, not even able to muster the proper inflection after the waiter explains his second dish. It sounded okay -- weird, but okay -- at first: golden toast with cream of salted egg. Toast. Egg. Fine. Yes. 

Chris’s voice is a little strained, too, when he clarifies. “Did you say-- uh. You said larva. Larva toast.”

“There it is,” Mackie says, looking smugly confident. “Fungus versus larva.”

Chris’s shoulder bumps Sebastian’s, a touch so light it could be accidental, but it’s not and he knows it’s not, and that’s enough. 

“You ready to shut up and eat, then?” He glances at Chris. “Say when.”

The worry is back on Chris’s face, and he scrubs a hand over his beard with a small sigh. “Yeah? Yeah, okay.” He pauses a beat. “When.”

Sebastian’s scrambling for his spoon as soon as Chris’s lips form the word, scooping jelly into his mouth as quickly as he can. It’s not what he’d call dessert, but it slides down his throat smoothly and he doesn’t really need to chew. His other hand is resting on his overtaxed belly, thumb absently stroking tiny circles as he’s shoveling even more food into his mouth. He is almost fully focused on his task, but Chris’s presence beside him begs a bit of attention. And every time he slides his eyes to Chris, Chris’s eyes are already on him, watching with an expression he’s inwardly calling “shock and awe.”

It takes six spoonfuls, and Mackie is nearly done with his first plate, too. Sebastian grabs the first piece of toast -- it’s just toast, _it’s just toast_ \-- and bites. He doesn’t spit the mouthful out, but it’s a near thing. It may be worse than the soup, because not only is the texture similarly problematic, but he knows what he’s eating (and it’s not just toast, it’s not, toast is not slimy and toast is maybe ruined forever).

He forces himself to swallow, congratulating himself on suppressing his gag reflex, and looks across the table. Mackie has cleared one plate and has yet to start on the second, glancing down with a look of utter disgust. Sebastian knows a bit about disgust; it doesn’t matter how full he is, he is washing the toast that ruined toast down with a couple gallons of water when this is over. 

Mackie picks up his spoon and aims at the fungus, Chris says “Seb” in a low, urgent voice and Sebastian shoves the rest of the toast into his mouth. It all happens at once, and this time, he’s not going to chew, he’s not going to, he can’t, and what happened to Ma’s rule, anyway?

Mackie’s spoon clatters to the table and Sebastian looks, mouth still full. “I’m out.”

Chris’s napkin appears instantly under his mouth and without a second’s pause, Sebastian spits ferociously, hand groping for his water glass. As he takes a long drink, a large hand presses against his back, and he leans instinctively into the touch, focusing on the warmth of Chris’s hands through his shirt. If he focuses on that, maybe he can ignore his body’s protests for a minute.

Except the door opens behind him, and he sees Mackie sag a little. He turns to look, glancing over Chris’s sturdy shoulder, and realizes he’s not going to get that minute. One of the PAs from the press tour is standing in the doorway, signaling that it’s time to go back.

He closes his eyes and pushes his chair back. He grips the edge of the table hard, using the leverage to shove himself up. Moving: a terrible idea.

“I hate you,” he tells Mackie, because it seems like something he has to say. But Mackie didn’t do this. He makes his own (terrible) decisions -- or at least he chooses who he’s following. And it wasn’t Mackie, or winning, that kept him pushing food into his mouth. 

Chris’s hand is gone from his back, and Chris himself is striding forward, bending his head to say something to the PA. Purpose is etched in every line of his face, and he frowns when the PA shakes his head in response.

“You gonna make it?” Mackie’s come up beside him now, and Sebastian glances over and hates him. He’s moving normally. He doesn’t look like he’s suffering. He doesn’t look like he might paint the room in dim sum. 

“I’m fucking peachy,” Sebastian mutters, trying to hunch over a little, his hand on the back of the chair. “Good game, fuck you, let’s get in the goddamn van.”

“No van,” Chris says as he approaches. “That fuckin’ thing-- no shocks. I asked for a car. Should be here soon.” He glances at Sebastian, offers a small smile. “Figured it might be more comfortable.”

Sebastian appreciates the gesture, but the glow tied into this dubious achievement is fading rapidly, quickly being overtaken by sheer misery. “Yeah, okay. Whatever.”

Getting back to the hotel is the first step. He has to ride there somehow, and at this point, he’d gladly climb into a rickshaw if it would move him closer to being done with this day. 

“Seb,” Chris says, the tone of regret in his voice unmistakable. “If you-- I mean, you …” he pauses, trails off, tries again. “I can see if they can reschedule your stuff, push it to later. So you can rest.”

“Sure, let’s do that,” Sebastian retorts, his tone as sharp as the pain in his swollen gut. “It’ll make a great headline, right? ‘Chubby Dumpling eats a lot of fucking dumplings, cancels interviews’. Marvel’ll be fine with it. Great idea.”

The PA appears in the doorway again, and Sebastian lets go of the chair, straightening and instantly regretting it. He walks slowly, painfully forward without glancing at Chris, but suddenly there’s a hand on his elbow. 

“Seb. I’m sorry,” Chris whispers hoarsely. “This isn’t-- I didn’t want you to feel like this. Let me push your interviews back. Please.”

He wants that, he really does. Wants to sink into Chris’s apology and then into the car seat and just somehow make it through the rest of his obligations. For now, he just has to walk through the restaurant, doing maybe the greatest acting of his life and pretending he isn’t stuffed and aching as he walks past tables and tables piled high with food. He sees vivid green out of the corner of his eye and swallows hard against the instant nausea, stumbling into Chris.

“Sorry,” he manages, fighting the urge to cradle his belly. Chris’s hand moves from his elbow to his back, steadying him. 

“I’ve got you.”

It’s better momentarily when they make it outside, but then Chris is guiding him forward toward a car that cannot be for them.

Sebastian plants his feet, almost causing Chris to trip over him. “That’s not it.” He’s sure of it, convinced he’s right, and then the PA waves from the front passenger seat, looking mildly chagrined. 

“I said car,” the PA blurts out, biting his lip. “I swear.”

Chris’s look of confusion transforms into understanding, and he blanches. “Um.”

Mackie stops, too, eyebrows raised as he eyes their transportation. “Only the best for Captain America, huh? Looks like a good time.”

Waiting at the curb is a shiny, tiny kei-car. He’s seen them all over the city. They’re kind of adorable, even, in their indecision between being a midget minivan or a baby bus. What they aren’t is up to the task of transporting three adult men in the backseat, especially when one of those men just nearly ate his weight in dim sum.

“Seb,” Chris murmurs, glancing at him concernedly. He reaches out to touch Sebastian’s shoulder, and Sebastian’s too cranky, too full, too everything to bother relishing it.

 

“I want the fucking van back,” he insists, knowing he sounds like a petulant, profane child. “I’m not riding in that.” _And you can’t make me_ , he adds mentally, considering stomping his foot to get the full effect. He’d be happy to throw a full-blown tantrum if it would make this car -- it’s not a car, it’s a toy that should melt from the sheer heat of his glare -- disappear.

Chris’s hand drops to his back again, and now he’s being pushed gently toward the idling torture chamber masquerading as an automobile. Mackie walks around to the far side, opens the door and gives the interior his most skeptical glance before climbing inside. Chris steps ahead to open the curb-side door, ducking down and sliding into the middle. He stretches a hand out to Sebastian, beckoning.

“Come on, I got you.”

He’s said it twice now, and though Sebastian’s discomfort and rancor alike are rising with every move he makes, Chris’s words bring a little relief. If Chris has got him, somehow, surely, it’ll be all right.

He bends to climb in beside Chris, and his stomach protests the contortion by threatening to rebel. He bites his lip hard and pulls the door shut. It’s a 10-minute drive back to the hotel. He’s filmed action sequences in the scorching Atlanta heat for hours on end. He can sit in this (not a) car without losing it.

Chris is turning sideways, angling his body to give Sebastian more room, and maybe he should wonder what Mackie’s thinking, but all he can think is that he needs comfort and space, and Chris is both and so much more. Chris’s smile is a fraction of its normal size and wattage as he tugs Sebastian back against him. 

“Do you wanna--?” he whispers, gesturing awkwardly at his lap. “I mean, if you’d be more comfortable. Do whatever. Let me help.”

Sebastian shifts, brain gone fuzzy at Chris’s words, automatically filling the space Chris has made for him, his back flush against Chris’s arm. He squirms -- Chris’s elbow is digging into his side in a way that is all pain and no pleasure -- and then Chris’s arm is moving, sliding around him. Now he’s resting against Chris’s torso. Now Chris’s hand is on his side. And now, maybe, he leans just a little bit more into that touch, belly bumping those warm fingers. 

If he keeps doing this, it’ll almost be like Chris is rubbing his belly.

As the car jolts into motion, he’s thrown into Chris a little more. “Sorry,” he mutters, ready to slide away, but then those fingers dig into his hip a little, holding him in place.

“S’fine, stay here.”

The stop-and-go of lunchtime traffic keeps sending him further into Chris’s side, and he relaxes there, taking shallow breaths, hoping his stomach will settle since his nerves aren’t about to. There’s not enough room in the car, not enough air, and suddenly he’s glad for it. 

Chris is talking quietly to Mackie, but his attention is on Sebastian: every twitch gets a gentle squeeze to his hip, every stifled moan earns a quick once-over. No one caretakes quite like Chris Evans, even in the too-small backseat of a car he no longer wishes was bigger.

He doesn’t try to stifle his groan when the car pulls up in front of the hotel. There’s a swarm of paparazzi, and he is going to have to fake it for all he’s worth. Chris is going to have to let go.

Flashbulbs are already going off in his face as the door opens, and he holds up a hand to shield his eyes, wrapping his other hand around the doorframe to lever himself up. He wobbles ever so slightly, and then Chris’s hand lights on his shoulder. He steadies, straightens and forces himself to walk, like Chris’s simple touch was all he needed.

His momentary feeling of brightness doesn’t last, dimming as soon as he’s ushered inside and led back toward the familiar, sterile interview room. Chris stops him before he can go in.

“You okay? I mean, really okay? ‘Cause I swear I can get them to push it for you. I will,” Chris promises, all earnest eyes and concern as he takes in Sebastian’s pale face.

Mackie’s there, too, nudging his shoulder, his expression playful. “Yeah, SeaBass, we can make this a one-man show. Go get you a hot water bottle or something. You look bad, man. Can’t have you dragging me down.”

“He doesn’t look bad,” Chris sputters defensively. “Just--”

Like he hurts, probably. Like he wants to crawl into bed and apologize to his stomach for the soup and the toast and the everything, except for all that he’s feeling now, he’s not sorry. Not sorry for agreeing to something that he’s done on his own, anyway; not sorry he kept going when he noticed Chris noticing; and definitely not sorry for the solicitousness this discomfort seems to inspire. 

Another PA appears in the doorway. “Mr. Stan? Mr. Mackie? We’re ready for you.”

Sebastian closes his eyes briefly, rolls his shoulders and shrugs at Chris. His mouth doesn’t quite make it to a smile. “This’s the life that everybody asks for, right? Duty calls.”

Chris isn’t trying to mask his concern, but he nods and turns to begin another intense conversation with another PA. Sebastian walks into the conference room and winces at the sight: a reporter who looks both eager and nervous, and those familiar chairs. They aren’t comfortable on a good day, and this is not a good day. He skips his usual handshake with the interviewer, focused entirely on what he has to do. Handshakes are optional, and he’s opting out. Gingerly, he sits, setting his elbows on the armrests, trying to take advantage of all the limited space available to him.

Mackie perches next to him, leaning in quickly. “MackAttack is on the case, all right? I got this.” He turns a wide smile to the interviewer as the camera starts rolling and points at him. “Here it is! Question.”

The sweater-vest-clad interviewer seems to stumble a little, then launches into his question, something about their roles. He mentions Ruffalo and then Tom Holland, and Sebastian’s trying to pay attention, he is, but he’s not focused on anything but twisting his hands in his lap, trying in vain to distract himself from his overstuffed gut.

“Tom Holland?” he blurts incredulously. Is every interview about this kid, really? He grumpily points out Mackie’s Marvel history and his own, and Mackie nods along until the interviewer tries to interject and clarify. 

Shit, he’s misunderstood. Mackie jumps in to smooth things out, answering the actual question now. The poor interviewer looks a little cowed by the heat of Sebastian’s reaction. 

Sebastian’s slumped a little in his chair, looking off to the side. Yeah, okay, maybe he should’ve let Chris try to push this back. This isn’t him, the surly star slouching and snarling his way through press. He tries to nod along, support what Mackie’s saying, even as he’s swallowing hard. He feels genuinely terrible -- he’d much rather be crammed into the kei-car against Chris’s side than stuffed into this chair trying to feign interest.

He’s not even present, not really; he’s not doing himself or the movie any favors with this performance. The next question is about their onscreen camaraderie, and he rallies, shifting in his chair -- moving is such a bad idea, no more moving -- before he answers.

The next one’s for Mackie, and Sebastian sits, breathes, tries to smile, and then it’s into a segment Anthony gleefully dubs “Quickfire!” 

The guy actually asks who eats the most, and his eyebrows raise even as Mackie calls him out without hesitation. “Sebastian,” he says emphatically, bursting into laughter, his earlier sympathy clearly forgotten in the face of an opportunity like this.

Sebastian’s arms are crossed over his belly in an effort to hide the truth of this title, and he grimaces slightly, shakes his head, and gives in. “Eh-- I’ll take it. I’ll take it.”

It’s over quickly after that, and the adjoining door that connects to the next conference room flies open as the interviewer’s being shown out. He’s maybe not surprised to see Chris, who’s probably come to check on him, but he is surprised to see the assistants trailing him. He waves weakly, keeping one arm folded against his stomach, as if he can physically hold himself together. 

Chris looks distinctly unimpressed at this demonstration, which seems unfair. He’s mostly sitting up. He’s kind of smiling. These hard-fought achievements should be lauded; instead, they’re being met with Chris’s stern face, which manages to be both intimidating and unfairly attractive.

“We can do an hour,” the petite assistant on his left says, scrolling through her phone. “We can almost definitely do an hour.”

“That’s a great start,” Chris says, striding forward and hooking a hand under Sebastian’s elbow, hauling him gently and firmly out of the chair and tucking him into his side. “But it’s not enough. He’s going upstairs to rest, and he’s not coming down--”

“Until he stops looking like that,” Mackie chimes in, shaking his head at Sebastian. “Hot water bottle, man. It’ll change your life.”

Weirdly, Sebastian does have the notion that his life is about to change, but it has less to do with Mackie’s suggested remedy than the way Chris is towing him out of the room and toward the elevator. Chris is very clearly in charge of this moment, and the relief of that knowledge lets Sebastian melt against him a little more.

“I can walk, you know,” he murmurs, fighting the urge to let his head loll onto Chris’s shoulder once the elevator doors close behind them. “I’m almost sure of it.”

Chris snorts with affectionate derision and presses the button for their floor. Sebastian stares at his too-pale reflection in the mirrored wall for a second and closes his eyes, leaning into Chris and trusting those muscles, this man, to support him. 

The elevator quietly chimes their arrival, and Chris leads him into the hallway.

“Oh, I’m in--” Sebastian begins, but Chris is already moving in the right direction.

“1128, yeah.” 

“Oh. Yeah, that’s me.” His keycard is on the pocket bumping against Chris’s strong thigh. He digs for it carefully, wondering if a flush is replacing his paleness. Chris’s fingers wrap around his when he wiggles it free, squeezing quickly before sliding it from his grip. 

Those deft fingers manage the keycard easily, and as soon as the door beeps, Chris is maneuvering them inside. “Sit down,” he urges, steering Sebastian toward the bed. He’s a little ashamed when he sees it’s still unmade -- he usually does that himself before he heads out, but he was late this morning -- but it’s convenient nonetheless, one less step between him and comfort.

He’s craving that comfort now as much as he’d craved the fullness that came with his lunchtime exhibition. Yeah, he’d pushed a little far, but the warmth of Chris’s interest and the glow of his approval weren’t easily ignored. And Chris is here now, taking care of him. His stomach cramps, and even as the groan slips out, there’s just one thought he can pick out: it was worth it.

He sinks down onto the comforter, sagging in relief. “Do I want to know what you did to get me out of there?” he asks Chris, starting to bend to unlace his sneakers. 

“Fuck,” he wheezes out, hand flying back to his belly.

“Shit, Seb! Stop, stop, I’ve got you.” It’s what, the third time Chris has used that phrase? He’s kneeling in front of Sebastian now, one shoe half-unlaced before Sebastian can think to protest. Those large hands are graceful, slipping the shoe off. Sebastian wiggles bare toes gratefully, and Chris looks up with a quick smirk, already working on the other shoe.

“Sockless? Classy.”

“My feet get hot,” Sebastian retorts. Plus, he’s not exactly sorry that Chris isn’t touching his sweaty socks. Warm fingers on bare skin are another story entirely. Chris frees the other foot and rocks back onto his heels, looking up at him.

His glance seems oddly pointed, and Sebastian looks down his own body to see what Chris is seeing. Is Chris-- is he staring at his belly, where it’s straining against the navy polo, over the top of the jeans? He is. He’s staring. Sebastian feels flushed again, but it’s not embarrassment heating his cheeks. It’s the way Chris looks as he stares.

“Seb,” Chris says, voice a little hoarser than normal, hand reaching forward so slightly he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. “Those look uncomfortable. Aren’t you gonna take ‘em off?”

He’s followed all Chris’s cues to this point; it wouldn’t seem right to stop now. 

“Aren’t you?”

He watches in fascination, breathing shallowly, as Chris’s pupils dilate in response to his taunt. He slides forward an inch, maybe two, leaning so that his belly shifts ever so slightly closer to Chris’s outstretched hand. Something is happening here, and he has to know, has to play it out. His existence has narrowed to one simple thing: what Chris wants.

The knock on the door startles them both, enough that Chris loses his balance and falls backward. He scrambles up quickly. “Fuck. I forgot-- okay, hang on.”

Sebastian gives up his efforts to stay upright and lets himself fall onto his back, the groan this time all exasperation. He looks sideways in time to catch Chris surreptitiously adjusting his jeans as he walks to the door. 

Yeah, something is happening here.

It’s one of the assistants from downstairs at the door, handing Chris a bulging bag that inspires instant curiosity. The exchange is quiet and mercifully brief, and Chris closes the door and turns back to him.

“So, uh. I had them get you some stuff.”

He walks to the desk and starts unloading the bag, retrieving the largest bottle of Pepto-Bismol Sebastian’s ever seen, a tin of ginger tea, a bottle of vinegar, some kind of seeds, a bag of rice, peppermints, a bunch of carrots, an ice pack, several bottles of water and a Thermos of something Sebastian can smell from several feet away.

Now he’s the one staring.

Propped up on his elbows now, he manages to get out “what the” before Chris rushes to start explaining. 

“I looked it up, what to do for … uh, indigestion. Rice tea’s supposed to be good, and the fennel seeds, those’re for cramping. If you’re cramping. Peppermints and ginger work really well, it said, and -- oh, fuck, yes, they already blended it!” He shakes the Thermos vigorously, grinning at Sebastian. “This’s an infusion, it was one of the best things to do.”

“An infusion,” Sebastian repeats, charmed despite himself. All this thought, all this effort, all for him. He is seriously concerned about some of these items, but he feels warm again at the evidence of Chris’s care. “An infusion of … what, exactly?”

A ruddy flush creeps up Chris’s neck. “Uh, well, it sounds kinda weird, so maybe just--” Sebastian’s glower seems to be enough response, so Chris holds his hands out, palms up, balancing the Thermos.

“Peppermint and carrot.”

Sebastian shakes his head. “No. Nope. No to the tea, I’m not chewing seeds, we’re not discussing the vinegar. How about you give me the Pepto and take my pants off?” 

Chris drops the Thermos onto his foot as Sebastian realizes what he's said. He inhales sharply, biting his lip, and decides to go all in. Something’s happening, and his participation is going to be anything but passive. He meets Chris’s shocked eyes, lets his lips fall into a teasing smirk. He knows it’s a good look for him. 

“I’m not taking that back.”

“Good,” Chris mutters fervently and pounces. Haste and lust have combined to make him momentarily forgetful, because his full weight’s on Sebastian for a second, pressing him back into the comforter, and it’s so good, so good. Chris realizes almost instantly and raises up with an apologetic “fuck, sorry,” but Sebastian fists his hand in Chris’s shirt to hold him in place before he can go too far.

Chris’s smile is all for him as he straddles Sebastian’s thighs, hands going to the button of his jeans, pausing there, checking in. “Tell me you want this.”

Finally. “Please,” Sebastian grits out. “I do want it. With you.”

Chris shudders, and those eyes are a little more intense, and his hands are in motion again, releasing the button of Sebastian’s jeans. The only sound in the room is the breath Sebastian’s struggling for and the rasp of his zipper sliding south. His hips lift automatically as Chris’s hands settle there, tugging the denim down in a way that brooks no protest. Chris wants them off; off they’ll come. 

The jeans do come off, indecorously slung into the corner, and Sebastian’s belly expands gratefully, no longer constricted. He glances down, noting the way his polo’s creeping up, exposing the evidence of his late-night room service habit and, of course, all those dumplings. Ever so slightly round, just a little softness over the muscle, and it’s all there, his excess on display for Chris. 

His black briefs aren’t doing him any favors in hiding his response to Chris’s perusal, which is anything but casual. Chris is studying him, first with bright blue eyes and now with gentle, sure fingers, stroking gentle circles into his belly, watching the flesh dip where he presses and swell back toward his touch, seeking.

Sebastian’s fascinated by Chris’s face in this moment, all blown pupils and flushed cheeks -- that he’s into this is undeniable, and Sebastian thinks that he doesn’t have to understand Chris’s interest to accept it. 

Chris slides a thumb under the waistband of Sebastian’s briefs, saying his name in a tone Sebastian’s never heard before. It sends his arousal into overdrive, and he lifts his hips once more, forcing Chris’s hand down further, to where he’s hard and leaking.

They both groan, and then Chris is leaning over him, kissing him in a way that feels like possession and tastes like sunshine. For all the want sparking between them, there’s no hurry here as Chris kisses him over and over, savoring him like he’s the best meal imaginable. He feels lazy and sated and yet so present in this. Touching Chris, being touched by him, it’s a calm sort of chaos that manages to be both arousing and relaxing. It feels right.

He tugs on Chris’s shirt, looking up with laughing eyes. “This’s feeling a little one-sided. Maybe you should get more comfortable.”

Chris’s shirt is gone almost before Sebastian’s finished speaking. “Trust me, Seb. I’m really fuckin’ comfortable right now.” 

Sebastian stretches long fingers out to graze Chris’s chest, experimenting with a press to one nipple, a flick to the other, thoroughly enjoying Chris’s gasps and flinches. Chris has been undoing him this whole time -- since the restaurant, maybe before. He’s just reciprocating. It seems right.

“Comfortable, huh?” Sebastian murmurs, voice thick with pleasure. “In those jeans? Maybe I’m not doing this right.” 

Chris actually growls at him, snatching his hand out of Sebastian’s briefs to shove his own jeans down -- all haste, no grace, but no less striking a sight for the hurry. They join Sebastian’s in the corner and then Chris is rocking against him, gray boxer briefs barely holding him in.

Good is a lackluster descriptor for the feeling of Chris, hard against him, rubbing forcefully enough that he half-expects actual sparks. It’s like fireworks under his skin, and he marvels, with what rational thought he can muster, that he can be so startled by these sensation. He’s wanted, and he’s had, but it’s never been like this. Because no one’s been Chris. This is right.

But Chris is pulling back, breathing hard, and he’s shaking his head. A thrill of panic shoots through Sebastian’s whole body: he’s screwed up, it’s over, Chris has stopped touching him. He opens his mouth to protest, to apologize, to scream in frustration, but then he catches Chris’s expression and knows, without room for doubt, that nothing is wrong.

Chris ducks his head and mouths at Sebastian through his briefs, looking up with a grin that’s everything wicked. “Wanna get my mouth on you.”

His brain is screaming _yesyesyes_ , and Sebastian thinks the word he manages to stutter out is “okay,” but his entire being is focused on Chris’s slyly grinning mouth hovering over his straining erection. The hands are moving again, tugging his briefs down past his hips, flattening a palm over his belly, delivering a quick pinch to his inner thigh.

“Tell me,” Chris demands, exhaling warm breath onto Sebastian’s cock, and Sebastian shivers, overwhelmed with the instant need to comply and the instinctive knowledge to do so.

“I want you,” he breathes, and Chris’s mouth closes around him.

He's trying to balance, trying to stay balanced, because Chris Evans swallowing him down is a visual he wants committed to memory. No hotel room will ever be the same; every key card’s going to be a symbol of possibility, something amazing to unlock with a quiet beep. 

There's nothing quiet, here and now, about the noises he's making as Chris sucks and swirls, lips and tongue and the barest hint of teeth. 

“Fuck” and “Chris” and “yes” are all forming a litany, the most sincere monologue he's ever delivered, spilling through a haze of heat and emotion. 

Chris is still stroking his belly with one talented hand, keeping perfect time with his mouth. From his place, sprawled bonelessly on the bed, Sebastian can just see the other hand, sliding in and out of Chris’s boxer briefs, matching his own rhythm. 

Talented in this, too -- it’s not surprising that Chris’s special magic, his innate easiness extend to this. He's touching Sebastian like he was born to do it, like it’s a privilege, like it’s a long-held dream he's getting to act out. Maybe it's all of those things, maybe none, but that mouth is driving him quickly to an edge he both craves and fears. 

When he's done, is this? Are they?

Chris is moving a little faster now, seeming to sense Sebastian’s nearness, maybe just indicating his own. He reaches down, twines his fingers with Chris’s where they're splayed across his stomach, and when Chris squeezes back, it's one touch too much. He calls out Chris’s name again, helplessly -- it's the only word he can form as he shatters into orgasm. 

He pants out a breath, then another, and commits all his remaining energy to sitting up, hand reaching for Chris. He needs Chris to feel this, too, needs to do for Chris what Chris’s done for him. Chris catches the hand as Sebastian’s fingers graze his skin, stretching up to give him a filthy, delicious kiss. 

“Let me,” Sebastian begins, and Chris’s smile is both sheepish and proud as he shrugs. 

“Already there,” he admits, and Sebastian glances down to see the dark, spreading stain on light fabric, and maybe his mouth falls into the slightest pout; that should've been his. 

Chris laughs and kisses him again. “Don't sweat it. I'm gonna have you again later.” He twists his wrist, eyeing his watch. “But we've got like 10 minutes until they're gonna want you back, so … how're you feeling?” 

He flops onto the bed beside Sebastian, chest still heaving in exertion. “And you've gotta change your shirt. That polo fuckin’ looks like one of mine, and I can't take it.”

Sebastian exhales, then sits up far enough to tug his sweat-damp shirt over his head. Chris glances over and groans. “Asked for that, didn’t I?” He runs a hand down Sebastian’s side, his eyes appreciative, if not a little predatory. “Almost couldn’t stay in my chair at the restaurant. You looked so good.” He sighs, stretching his arms behind his head, displaying that beautifully muscled chest to full advantage, and Sebastian considers leaning down to take a bite. For this, he's still hungry.

His stomach -- mostly forgotten until now -- gurgles a protest, and Chris shoots up, satisfied haze replaced with sharp-eyed concern. He’s vaulting off the bed before Sebastian can speak, grabbing the enormous bottle of Pepto-Bismol off the table and turning back to Sebastian, who nods.

Chris twists off the cap and hands the bottle to him, and without a spoon handy, Sebastian takes a quick drink, making a face at the unnatural, chalky taste. Chris bends to grab his own shirt and tosses Sebastian’s jeans onto the bed, glancing over his shoulder.

“Thanks for lettin’ me take care of you.” 

That warm flush of comfortable rightness steals over him again at those words. Sebastian stands, shoving a leg into his jeans, watching the play of Chris’s muscles as he dresses.

His reply is deliberately light, the words carefully chosen. “Yeah, I might let you do it again sometime.” All of it. Anytime. It goes unspoken, and yet he knows Chris hears everything he isn’t saying.

Chris inhales, and the sound is so loud in the quiet between them that it seems to echo. He doesn’t turn, and Sebastian’s glad of it. They have to recapture their usual dynamic and set aside this new one. He steps to the closet and manages to button his jeans closed, rifling quickly for another shirt. He grabs a long-sleeved chambray, and it reminds him of Chris’s jeans, so he slips into it.

When he turns around, Chris is fully dressed, watching him, and they trade meaningful grins just as a knock sounds at the door. Sebastian walks to answer it this time, and the PA who greets him looks relieved.

“You look so much better!” she exclaims, and behind him, Chris snorts in amusement. “No, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I mean--”

Sebastian cuts her off with a smile, running his fingers through his messily tousled hair. “It was pretty bad, I know. Better now, though.”

Chris steps up behind him, standing as close as he can without touching, close enough that Sebastian can feel it when he shrugs. “Told you, right? I’ve got you.”

As they step into the hallway, the truth of those three words goes with Sebastian. He was right, and he’s glad of it: something’s happening.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to scream about Sebastian Stan (and who doesn't, it should be a national pastime), come say hi on Tumblr! I'm [whowaswillbe](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com) there. Let's be friends.


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